


Bought for a Song

by StarkPanda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drugs, Gen, Withdrawal, hint of squick, slave AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-30
Updated: 2012-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-30 08:30:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/329813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarkPanda/pseuds/StarkPanda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson hadn't bought any new slaves since he returned from Afghanistan, and so Mike's proposition of a little project seemed like just the thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bought for a Song

**Author's Note:**

> Parts of this are probably OOC. There is also mention of an embedded collar, which I do not go into graphic detail over. This isn't something I recommend google image searching, it's essentially what it says on the tin there.

John Watson didn't recognise Mike Stamford at first. He'd been limping along on one of his ever more frequent walks through the park and had carefully averted his eyes from the spectacle of a rather portly man beating his slave with a riding crop. It was nothing out of the ordinary, but John had never really thought that that was the best way to train obedience into a slave.

It hadn't been until the crack of the crop silenced and Mike's rather unmistakeable voice boomed out that John had realised who it was that he was seeing.

“Hullo, Stamford.”

“John Watson it is you! Well I certainly never expected to see you here, last I heard you were off somewhere getting shot at. What happened?”

“I got shot.”

“Oh,” there was an awkward pause, “Well would you like to get some coffee? I can tell you what all has gone on while you've been away, what the old crowd's up to.”

He didn't really care to spend more time with Stamford and was on the verge of refusing when the slave curled at their feet looked up at met his eyes. John's breath had caught slightly, not only at the sheer audacity of such an act but at the incredible beauty held by those angular features. Stamford was beating this slave with something that could leave a mark? How bloody stupid was the man?

“Yeah alright. And you can tell me what brought on such a...public display.”

They began walking towards the nearest cafe, John still leaning heavily on his cane. “Oh that.” Mike's voice was derisive. “I got this at a real bargain. Believe it or not, it's from the same stock as a Parliamentary line. Nothing anyone can do with it though and I'm just about ready to give up. Only thing is, no one is stupid enough to buy it from me.”

“Couldn't you just send it to the auctions?” John was careful to keep his voice level. He doubted he'd be able to afford anything really, but a couple months of tightening his belt would be worth it to own this spectacular creature.

“Oh believe my, I've tried. The houses all know his reputation though. I'm hardly his first owner.”

“Well, why don't I give him a try? I've no slaves at the moment, had to sell them all off before I went to Afghanistan,” at this the slave twitched slightly, “and I've also nothing else to do at the moment really. It's a good solution for us both, you get rid of it and I get a project to work on.”

Mike squinted at him, considering, before bursting into laughter. “There's the crazy Watson I used to know. Tell you what, we'll write the bill of sale over that coffee and you can take him with you right away. And if you'll throw in a clause saying you'll never try and return him, you can have him for the price of one of their delicious brownies.” At John's poleaxed expression, Mike grinned even harder, looking like his face was hurting under the strain, “Trust me, give it a week and you'll understand why I'm so desperate to be rid of it.”

***** 

Drawing up the contract took nearly no time at all, with several other customers serving as witnesses. By the time John finished his rather sub-par drink, he was the new owner of one Sherlock Holmes. It wasn't until they were on the way back to John's flat at 221B Baker Street, where he'd moved after reluctantly accepting Harry's help, that John realised he wasn't exactly equipped to house another creature.

Ducking into Tesco's proved to be even more of an ordeal than usual. First he'd had to hunt through a truly ridiculous number of hideously over decorated collars to find a plain black leather one to replace the awful tawdry thing Mike had put around the slave's neck. It might be the fashion to have brightly coloured collars with patterns, but anyone with eyes could see that the Hawaiian print monstrosity was just that. After that it was just milk and eggs before John had a rematch with his old enemy, the chip and pin machine.

By the time he finished, he was fairly sure that his new slave was holding back on snickering through sheer force of will. They headed home and John managed to put the groceries away before collapsing into his chair. The slave was crouched in the far corner, where he'd gone to be out of the way while John tidied, and showing no signs of willingly moving closer.

John had always been an odd one in his family. Harry had subscribed to the traditional training techniques of beating the submission into her slaves, but John had never really felt that this was the best way to secure a life long bond that would keep slaves, if not happy, content in their roles. When he'd sold his few slaves to Mary Morstan prior to going to war, he'd made sure that she held the same beliefs and had reassured each slave individually. It had still been a hard separation, he'd had some of those slaves since he was put into their care as a child.

But now he had a new focus. Beckoning Sherlock over, he pretended for the moment not to see the obvious reluctance in the slave's face and movements. He reached down and unclipped the old collar and went to remove it before freezing as agony flashed across the slave's face. It was only a momentary glimpse before Sherlock schooled his face to blankness but it had been enough to set John's doctor alarm bells ringing. 

He leaned forward and gently tilted Sherlock's chin up. With closer examination, it was obvious that the collar he was wearing was far too tight and had begun to embed itself in the skin of Sherlock's throat. John had heard of using this method as a way of punishing and marking a slave that a person had deemed untrainable, but he'd never actually seen it utilised. 

With a sigh, he released Sherlock's face and heaved himself to his feet. “You just stay there, I'll need some supplies if we're going to get that off you without doing more damage.”

He limped his way across the room to his medical bag. It was kept fully stocked out of habit, and he'd never been so glad of it. Hefting it slightly, letting it's weight counter balance his ungainly stride, John returned to his chair, ignoring the burning gaze Sherlock followed him with. He pulled out a set of gloves, a large roll of gauze and some local anesthetic. It wasn't until he pulled out a syringe to administer it though, that Sherlock gasped and reflexively covered his arms.

John had to pause and close his eyes to rein in his reaction. As a last resort, many owners would drug their slaves, get them utterly dependent on cocaine or heroin and thus their owner as the provider. It was obvious that someone had tried and failed with this method on Sherlock. The withdrawal would have been absolute hell.

“This is just a local. I am not going to be peeling that goddamn collar out of your skin without numbing you first.”

Sherlock glanced up at him, obviously surprised but grateful for the explanation. Well, if that's all it took to reassure him...

“I've not treated many cases of embedded collars but I have had the training on it. So I'll just numb the area, remove the collar, and the wrap the area in gauze to give it some time to heal. Once it has, and there shouldn't be too much scaring since I've got to it fairly early, then and only then will I be putting your new collar on. And that will be a much better fit, I can promise you that.”

Sherlock nodded hesitantly, and John suspicions began to arise. He kept them to himself for the moment, injecting the numbing agent and beginning the slow, careful process of easing the collar free with the least amount of damage to the surrounding tissue as he could manage. Sherlock sat docile as a lamb through the whole procedure, only startling slightly as John wound the gauze around his throat, covering it from chin to collar bones.

Done with the more immediate task, John pulled a penlight from his bag and flicked it over Sherlock's eyes. Seeing exactly what he'd feared he would, he cursed Mike Stamford with all the vicious vitriol he could muster.

The withdrawals hadn't been hell. They would be hell.

“When was your last injection?”

Sherlock blinked at him in a daze, and pointed hesitantly to his neck. “No, when did Mike last inject you? I saw your reaction to the needle and that only speaks of one thing, so when was your last injection?”

Sherlock curled in on himself slightly, “Yesterday evening, sir.”

John ran a hand through his hair and glanced around the flat. Were he anyone else, he would deem this an impossible task to be undertaken by himself, but he had invaded Afghanistan and he knew this could be a critical foundation point for his relationship with Sherlock. Decided, he stood and went into the kitchen to collect two large bowls and a kitchen towel and a jar of peanut butter.

Passing through the living room, he called to Sherlock, “Come along then,” and headed up the stairs to his bedroom, pausing at the bathroom to fill one of the bowls with water. Sherlock padded after him, a vague look of confusion on his face.

When they reached the bedroom, John set his things on the bedside table and pulled a chair up to one side of the bed. They'd be okay for the night, but the morning was going to be the beginning of several weeks of breaking Sherlock free of his current addiction and John was going to get his last night of decent rest while he could.

“On the bed with you then.”

Sherlock's face crumpled slightly and he reached up to pull his soft cotton t-shirt up over his head. John's hand shot out and caught the slave's wrist before he could pull it more than half way off.

“No, just get on the bed and lie down. There's no where else for you to sleep right now, and I can't be worrying that you'll either wander off or start having withdrawal symptoms when I'm not there. This isn't a permanent thing, it's just 'til we can get you cleaned up.”

Sherlock nodded and crawled under the covers. John clicked the light off and followed, wondering how much his new slave would change without the chemical collar holding him down.

***** 

It started around three AM with the dreams. When he woke, Sherlock tried his best to stay utterly still, that was obvious, but the bed frame was shaking under the force of his trembling. John had woken and moved from the bed to doze as best he could in the chair beside it, knowing he'd need all his strength for the days to come. Sherlock managed a few more hours of fitful sleep but finally surrendered it as a lost cause shortly after dawn.

John had been prepared for this and the agitation he expected to follow. What he honestly hadn't really expected though was the deep and crushing depression that Sherlock had slid into with alarming swiftness. The slave had curled himself in the corner formed by the wall and the headboard and stared blankly at the wall. John had worried for several heart pounding moments that his new slave had actually stopped breathing.

John managed to call in a favour with a friend and had some antidepressants brought to the flat. He knew that it wouldn't completely alleviate the symptoms, but it would at least get the slave moving again. 

He hoped.

The dreams continued through the week, and when coupled with the agitation and general full body flu-feeling, John wasn't surprised when Sherlock grew progressively snappier. The slave still wasn't talking to him, merely glowering and rumbling away under his breath like an unhappy cat, but as the worst of the withdrawal passed them by, Sherlock's eyes were much clearer and he had begun to stare at John for inordinate amounts of time.

He spent the entire time John was changing the bandages on his throat staring at the wrist watch Harry had given him. Still though, he said nothing. John was starting to feel that the slave might never speak to him, which was surprisingly disappointing. Sherlock was beautiful, there was no denying that, and John couldn't help but feel that his voice would be just as pleasant. The fact that Sherlock's throat was now healed enough that John felt it would do better with exposure to the air and the slave was now wearing his leather collar, on the loosest fitting, was nothing to do with it. Even if the contrast between the leather and the incredibly pale skin beneath is was breath taking.

It was only after the final remnants of withdrawal faded away that Sherlock finally spoke to John.

“How long has your brother been an alcoholic?

“Excuse me?”

“How long has your brother been an alcoholic? Going by the state of your watch, very obviously a gift that was more second hand than your brother let on, it has been at least three years, but no more than five. So I ask again, how long has your brother been an alcoholic?”

John sat back in his chair and stared into the suddenly sharp eyes of his slave. He was fairly sure he'd not mentioned Harry near Sherlock before, much less that she was an alcoholic. “How could you possibly know any of that?”

“It's obvious. That watch is significantly more ostentatious than anything else I have observed in the flat, ergo you did not purchase it for yourself, it was a gift but given to you by someone who you see often enough to necessitate wearing it even though it isn't to your preference. A friend would have known that, family member should have but might not, especially if you weren't particularly close before you went to Afghanistan. You haven't had calls or really left the flat over the past week so it is likely either your parents are dead or estranged, so they wouldn't have been the ones to give you the watch and so it must have been a sibling. The level of expense and the shade of brown in the leather says this is a man's watch and so, brother.”

John blinked, utterly dazed. “And the drinking?”

“There are scratches on the watch face. It's fairly difficult to get scratches like that on the face of a wrist watch, unless for some reason a person's coordination is compromised. You are obviously quite well coordinated, you'd have to be in a war zone, so the scratches didn't come from you so they must have come from your brother, the alcoholic.”

“That was...” Sherlock cringed back against the head board slightly, painfully obvious in his attempts to make it look casual. “Brilliant.”

Wide grey-blue eyes snapped to meet John's, “What?”

“That was absolutely brilliant. Is that why none of your previous masters wanted you?”

“...among other things.”

“And what would those be?”

“I don't sleep, I don't like to eat and especially not things like vegetables or red meats. I'll eat biscuits if I must but really hunger speeds up my mental processes and I've seen what the Holmes metabolism will do if given free reign. I've no desire to end up like my fat cat of a brother who can barely manage to manoeuvre his bulk from one side of the room to another. And I can not only read and write but play violin.”

“Well or badly?”

He seemed to have caught Sherlock off guard again. “Excuse me?”

“Do you play the violin well, or badly?”

“Oh, quiet well.”

“In that case, I don't think we'll be having any problems.”

**Author's Note:**

> If any wants to continue on in this vein, feel utterly free and welcome to play in my sand box.


End file.
